Number Your Days: The Honeymoon That Isn’t Yours

It’s Sunday night, 9 o’clock, and the house is finally quiet. The baby is asleep in her little confinement nest, her mother resting too, cared for the way she should be. That first month is always a honeymoon for the mother. Everyone around her makes sure she heals well, nourishes the baby, hands her off when she needs to rest. She gets the freedom to choose when to sleep, when to work, when to hold the baby close and when to breathe.

But nobody talks about what that first month feels like for the father. Nobody says that when one child arrives, the rest do not pause to wait for you to catch up. The test does not shrink. It multiplies. Taking care of the others is not optional, but it is a choice. You either keep them alive or do it so well that they remember these days as some of the most meaningful they ever had with you.

I used to think the small things were nonsense. The reminders, the repeat instructions, the dropped books and unwashed dishes. Now I see this is the real legacy work. The paradox is simple. The mother gets the honeymoon. The father gets the quiet grind. And if I want this grind to mean anything, I need to number my days or I will drift through them pretending forever exists.

The Dinner Disaster and the Cage Door Swinging Open

That test showed up for me on an ordinary Friday night. My eldest and I had been revising for his exam. We mapped out which topics to do each day, which pages, how I would guide him. He did well at first. Then the guests arrived for dinner. That was when I saw the loophole.

My kids know me well. They know when the rule setter is distracted, caught up in polite conversation, refilling glasses, making sure the house feels warm. They see the pattern. When that happens, the cage door swings open. Paradise. Freedom. I saw it spark in my son’s eyes the moment our guest stepped in. He looked like our little puppy that has been inside too long, finally let off the leash. He ran wild. Interrupting conversations, ignoring the plan we had made, roaming the house while I sat at the dining table, half-listening to our guests. My plate stayed untouched. I caught his eye and shook my head. No need to shame him in front of others. So I waited. When everyone left, I told him, “Respect must be earned. Live in a way that earns you the respect you want.” He nodded, but I could see half of it went in one ear and out the other.

I could have forced him back to his books that night, but I did not. After putting them to sleep, I went to visit his mother and baby sister at the confinement centre as usual. Another day gone for revision, but sometimes the soil is not ready. Better to wait than to plant in hard ground.

Sports Day, Bamboo Roots, and the Divine Standard

The next morning, he was lounging again, too casual for a boy with an exam around the corner. I felt the old heat rising in my chest. I almost snapped. But another part of me said, “Soil before seeds.” So I sat him down. We talked for 1.5 hours. I gave up a morning’s revision to dig deeper instead.

I told him about sports day: Every year, the same kids who never step foot in the gym show up the week before. Running on the treadmill, lifting weights like 7 days will make up for 7 months of drift. Sports day is not the point, I told him. It is just the alarm clock. The real training happens long before the whistle blows. His exam is the same. That paper is not the real test. It is a checkpoint. The real question is, do you keep your word. Can you show up for your own growth when no one is watching? Will you be responsible when the cage door swings open?

He looked at me, wide-eyed, and said it like a confession, “I wish to learn. But I don’t wish to learn.” That is my boy. Honest. Stubborn. I respect him for that more than if he had told me what I wanted to hear.

I told him about Divine, the girl who almost broke my perfect record. She lost her hope at Accounting for Cambridge IGCSE 10 years ago, everyone said so. Teachers. Parents. Even me. But she and her mother begged for a chance. I said yes, but not for free. I demanded sincerity. She did not give it at first. I remember telling her, “If you will not fight for this, I cannot fight for you.” That broke something in her. She came back ready. She Ace her Accounting paper! Years later, she messaged me from her graduation in Sydney, telling me, “You were the first person who believed in me more than anyone else.” But the truth is, I did not just believe. I demanded she believe in herself.

This is the same soil I am tending with my son now. Except he is not 16. He is just 9. I cannot rush what must grow slowly. I remind myself about bamboo. It grows underground for years before you ever see a single shoot. Its roots spread wide, deep, silent. One day, it shoots up taller than anything else around. But it only stands tall because it spent its early years hidden in the dark.

The 30/30/9 Paradox and the Roots That Outlast Us

This is the paradox that keeps me up at night. He is 9 now. Soon 10. Early years gone forever. Lower primary nearly done. In 9 more years, he will walk out my door. Off to college, off to face the storms alone. That is 9 years to plant what matters. 9 years to teach him how to stand when I am no longer there to hold him steady. 9 years to shape the older brother who will show the younger ones how to stand strong.

And me. I am nearly 40. Average lifespan for a man here is 70. That is 30 years if grace is kind. Maybe I get a bonus decade. Maybe an accident shortens it. The point is not to obsess about when I will die. It is to stop drifting through days pretending I have endless tomorrows.

I talked about this with my wife the other night. We realised so much of our own maturity only came when we reached 30. For most people, 30 is the age of awakening. The age when you see you are no longer a child. When you realise life is no longer about blame or waiting for rescue but about standing on your own feet. If that is true for me, maybe it will be true for him too. Maybe it takes 20 more years before the seeds I am planting now come alive in him. Maybe there will be 10 good years when both of us are awake enough to stand side by side as father and son, both doing the real work.

This is not just in my head. It is real. Harvard research shows 80% of lifelong character traits are shaped by age 12. Studies show kids who develop resilience before age 10 are 45% more likely to succeed in higher education and more than half will grow into leadership roles one day. Even his brain reminds me to be patient. The prefrontal cortex, the part that governs impulse control, planning, and responsibility, does not fully mature until about 25. This is why small seeds matter now. This is why slow roots matter more than any shortcut.

That is why I number my days. To remind myself that momentum takes time. That drifting feels safe until you see what it costs. And that the roots I tend now might hold him up long after I am gone.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

The real test is not the exam he will sit for with a pencil in his hand. The real test is the one I take every single day. Whether I have the patience to let him fail and try again. Whether I have the humility to show him my flaws when I get it wrong. Whether I believe that invisible roots matter more than the shiny results the world wants to see.

People pay tutors to fix this. They outsource the hard bits. They buy grades, certificates, medals. But you cannot buy roots. You cannot outsource the quiet conversations on a slow Saturday morning. You cannot skip the bamboo years.

Resilience is not taught like a syllabus. It is chosen, lost, fought for, found again. It grows in the dark when no one is clapping. It shows up in the moments when the father looks away and the child decides for himself whether the open cage door is freedom or a test.

So I will keep numbering my days. Not because I am afraid of dying tomorrow. I am afraid of drifting through tomorrow with nothing that lasts. I will stand in the grind. I will hold the line when it would be easier to let it slip. I will pray the roots I am tending now will hold strong long after I am gone.

If you are a parent reading this, number your days too. Not so you fear the end, but so you treasure the soil you stand on right now. The roots you plant today might only bloom when you are gone. That is the paradox worth living for.